


late-night teatime

by inallmybitterness



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Childhood Friends, Comfort, Comfort Food, Friendship, Gen, Late Night Conversations, Platonic Male/Male Relationships, no beta we die like Glenn, sylvain and dimitri are both depressed but also very good friends
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-30
Updated: 2019-12-30
Packaged: 2021-02-27 05:40:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,909
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22031938
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inallmybitterness/pseuds/inallmybitterness
Summary: Sylvain stays out until the early hours as a way to fight his demons. Dimitri stays up, unwilling to sleep, to escape his ghosts.Neither can let go of their burdens yet, but sometimes a quiet moment shared with your friend over comfort food and a mug of piping hot tea just before dawn breaks is enough to keep you going. (Platonic SylMitri, Modern AU)
Relationships: Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd & Sylvain Jose Gautier
Comments: 2
Kudos: 37





	late-night teatime

The moment his Uber stops in front of the house he shares with his friends at around four in the morning, Sylvain notices a faint light emanating from behind the living room curtains. Such a sight was definitely not unusual, and neither was his late return. Aside from Sylvain himself, Dimitri and Annette both had serious issues sleeping—the former out of sheer insomnia; the latter because she often lost track of time doing her best at… whatever it was she set out to do, really. Whether she was studying or doing chores, Annette was akin to a car speeding down a hill with no brakes: if no stronger force managed to stop her, she eventually crashed.

Sylvain tries to come into the house silently, as he does every night. He turns the key in the lock as slowly as possible, hoping whoever is in the living room won’t notice him. If he’s lucky enough, someone may have just left the TV on and gone back to their room or fallen asleep on the couch.

He opens the door little by little, taking every possible measure to be inconspicuous, and steps into the hall. To his left, he sees a dim, flickering glow coming from the living room, door open ajar. At the end of the corridor, he sees bright lights behind the half-open kitchen door, partially illuminating the handrail of the staircase right next to it: his salvation, the staircase that leads to the bedrooms upstairs. His situation isn’t as favorable as he wishes it was, but if he’s quick and lucky enough, he can dash across the corridor and go up the stairs taking swift, silent, feathery steps. _You got this, man_ , he thinks to himself as he furtively sets out on his sprint—

—Only to come to a sudden halt as the kitchen light goes off and a figure ghosts out, the heavy bags under his eyes noticeable despite the dark environment they now find themselves in, unkempt blond hair adorning features that look significantly older than the 18-year-old boy they belong to.

Sylvain yelps, but Dimitri simply lifts his eyes to him, his surprise limited to barely raising his eyebrows.

“Sylvain,” he says softly, probably to avoid any chance of disrupting their roommates’ sleep. Gentlemanly as ever.

“Night, your Highness,” Sylvain teases, as he usually does when all he wants is to run away, distracting both his listener and himself from how restless he feels inside. “Hope you weren’t up waiting on me,” he winks.

Dimitri sighs, ignoring the nickname. His polite, charitable behavior combined with his condition as a member of (what used to be) one of the country’s most politically influential families apparently reminded Sylvain of a typical fairytale prince. As such, much to Dimitri’s chagrin, his friend made it a habit of calling him “your Highness”.

“I know better than to wait just to lecture you yet again,” he mutters, exhaustion clear as day as he looks down at the mug in his hands. Sylvain takes notice of it for the first time, briefly congratulating himself for being able to stop quickly before he ran into Dimitri and got them both soaked in hot tea.

“Great!” Sylvain immediately blurts out, only to hate himself for it. If Dimitri is too tired to the point he won’t even try to nag on him for fooling around until the early hours, something is _clearly_ wrong. Sylvain doesn’t mention it, however, and runs his mouth as usual instead. “So we can skip that and head straight to the part in which we’re both tucked away in our beds, sleeping soundly as if we’d never run into each other.”

He gingerly takes a side-step towards the stairs. Everybody in that house is acquainted with Dimitri’s insomnia. In a way, it’s just routine for him. So it can’t be that bad, right? Sylvain ignoring his friend’s predicament may be a dick move, but in this context, it isn’t any worse than usual.

Dimitri remains unmoved on the kitchen doorway, staring wistfully at his tea.

“I just got some tea,” he muses, “so I’m afraid I can’t skip to going to bed. I’m… not sure I want to.”

Sylvain takes a step back. _Okay, that sounds pretty bad._

“But please, don’t concern yourself over me,” he continues, his lips quirking up in a pitiful attempt at what Sylvain assumes to be a reassuring smile. “You should go up and get some rest from… whatever you were up doing so late. Your body must be tired.”

He walks into the living room without waiting for his friend to reply, and Sylvain decides to follow him, secretly relieved he won’t fully ignore his nightly outings. A beacon of normalcy.

“Y’know what,” he says in a lively tone, “I still got plenty of energy, so I’ll keep you company for a while.” He rests one hand on the doorframe as he peeks into the room, as if trying to spy on someone. “What are you watching at this hour, anyway? Finally decided to check out those late-night channels I told you about?”

Part of him wants to hit himself for the tactless comment, but he doesn’t back down. One of his ways of showing comfort involves acting like the inconsequent, carefree idiot he often makes himself out to be. Such a façade may be unlike his real self—a man who can be overwhelmed by grudges and shallow, misguided attempts at contradictory self-liberation—but it is the Sylvain his friends have gotten used to. It may not always work for him, but if it works to somehow keep things around him balanced, to provide his friends with some stability _(as if he had any)_ , that is good enough.

Dimitri sighs yet again. “I really didn’t think I’d have to lecture you, but you’re making it hard to stick to my resolve.”

“It was a joke!” Sylvain interjects dramatically, a little louder than intended. Dimitri glares at him in a silent order to tone it down. “C’mon, Dimitri, you know me better than to take most of what I say seriously. Here, let’s see what you’re up to.”

He hunches forward as he rests his elbows on the back of the couch where Dimitri’s seated. On the TV in front of them, the second half of a soccer match is about to start, an announcer’s voice sounding like indecipherable murmurs due to the device's low volume. Sylvain recognizes it as a rerun of a friendly match between the national teams of Almyra and Brigid. Soccer may not be as popular in those countries as in Fódlan, but both teams are passionate and hardworking, making them fierce rivals during international championships. The match was quite exciting as far he remembered: the Almyrans turned the tables and secured their victory with two goals within the last fifteen minutes. Even Felix, who much prefers individual sports, was caught in the thrill, making no effort to play it cool as he normally would.

Dimitri, as the fabled captain of Fhirdiad Football Club’s under-17 team, retained his interest in soccer despite abandoning his post. His coach used to say he had a promising future in sports, and both may have discussed ways to conciliate his career and his college studies a few times. The last year before he moved out to the city of Garreg Mach saw a decline in his performance, however, as a result of a slump in his mental health. Truth be told, Dimitri hasn't been quite the same since his parents' untimely death, but it seems that year in particular was especially bad. For his own good as well as for the sake of all players he did not want to hurt anymore, he decided to scrap his plans and focus on his Political Science studies instead.

Even now, Sylvain can sense the longing in his friend’s eyes as he quietly sips his tea, most of his body reduced to faint outlines made visible by the sole source of light in the room. The contrast between his face—illuminated by the TV’s bright screen—and his body—melding into the darkness—is a good metaphor for Dimitri himself. By day, when time ticks faster in an endless rush towards the future, with no care for how (un)prepared one might be to face it, Dimitri is a chivalrous, reliable, dedicated young man. In the dead of the night, he is a fragile boy who looks as if he could crumble within the grasp of whatever makes him dread going to sleep.

Sylvain may not understand the full extent of his friend’s perils, but when he stops to think about it, he can see some patterns the two of them share. Both prefer to show the world a familiar, albeit skewed version of themselves. Both are aware of what lurks inside, but are either too scared or too frail to face it head-on.

Both want to take hold of their own future, but neither knows how.

“I missed this match the first time it aired,” Dimitri explains, his voice barely audible over the TV’s muffled sounds. “I’ve read about the results, but Almyra versus Brigid is a show I needed to watch in full.”

“It was one hell of a game,” Sylvain concurs. “Can you believe even Felix got into it? I think last time he took soccer that seriously was that time we played at his house, remember?”

“The time I kicked the ball over to Miss Cornelia’s backyard?” Dimitri asks, shyly, eliciting a chuckle from Sylvain.

“We don’t talk about that one. I’ve had my fair share of being threatened or chased down by women, but _that_ was the worst by far. At least Ingrid was there to back me up.”

“As usual.” Dimitri’s expression is still distant, taken far beyond the screen he seems to stare at, but his lips are tugged upwards in the faintest smile Sylvain has ever seen.

“She still gave our parents _hell_ for a while, though.” Sylvain shudders at the memory. “But I was talking about that time Glenn played with us. Don't you remember? He and Felix were a team, the two of us and Ingrid were the other. They were so confident, they said they could beat us without a goalkeeper.”

“I remember that now!” Dimitri’s lips morph into a proper smile as he speaks, his face lighting up at the thought of simpler, happier days. “It was the only time Glenn played with us. I was honestly surprised no one broke anything back then. Two competitive martial artists giving it their all could have ended up badly.”

“You speak as if you and Ingrid weren’t two damn menaces yourselves!” Sylvain gives him a light punch on the shoulder, careful not to hit so hard as to make him spill his tea. “Watching you guys from the goal was like watching a battle royale.”

“My most vivid memory is from when Ingrid and I simultaneously tried to steal the ball from Felix, but she ended up stepping on my foot and the three of us fell over each other.”

“Then Glenn took the opportunity to try and score on his own!” Sylvain needs to make conscious effort not to raise his voice in excitement, both because of the memories and because of the look on Dimitri’s face. While the ghost of fatigue still looms over his features, the air surrounding him feels different. A little more... alive.

“I wish I had seen that!” Dimitri turns away from the TV to look at Sylvain, returning the teasing punch he received. Except in Dimitri’s case, caution is not enough to control his strength as much as he wishes, and Sylvain grimaces at the sensation—it is not quite pain, but it is still uncomfortable. “You were quite the goalkeeper, though. When I finally rose, your face was bright red, but you held the ball tightly in your grasp.”

“Glenn gave me a run for my money, alright.” He points at his abdomen. “I tried to hold it, but the ball still hit me right here. Kinda knocked the air out of me for a second. Trust a martial artist to know how to kick.”

“Thank you for your service.” Dimitri laughs—a brief, quiet snicker, but he laughs all the same—before lowering his head. “Do you remember who won?”

“Nope. But I remember Felix was a little whiny when it ended, so I assume it was either a tie or a win for us.” Sylvain smiles fondly. “Don’t ask him about it, though. He’d probably kill us on the spot for bringing up his past self.”

“Of course. He must remember, however. He spent a few days talking about how we should get together and play again before Glenn moved out.” The smile on Dimitri’s face wanes back into the elusive expression Sylvain caught sight of before, his whole face overcome with the sense of melancholy longing that permeates so many of his reminiscences. “We never got to play with him again, though.”

“Yeah.” Sylvain’s eyes drift to the TV screen, and he suddenly points at it, startling Dimitri. “Look, Brigid’s about to score!”

The younger man perks up in expectation, but the moment the Brigid player is about to take a shot at the goal, Dimitri can tell he is in an offside position. He deflates further when the Almyran goalkeeper easily defends a goal that would have been nullified anyway.

“Oops,” Sylvain looks away in obviously fake remorse, “looks like I misremembered that.”

Dimitri turns around to push him lightly, and Sylvain has the feeling he’s making less of an effort to keep his strength in check than when he punched him. “You and your… _nonsense_.”

“It’s okay, your Highness. You can say _bullshit_.” He stumbles back, rubbing his arm lightly.

“When faced with two words that carry the exact same meaning, I would rather choose the one that makes me more comfortable, thank you.” Dimitri argues in a tone that could indicate either a serious proposition or an attempt at a joke. He's not the best at humor, so Sylvain often can't tell. “Are you going to sleep?”

“Nah, just going to grab something to eat. My body may not be tired, but it _is_ pretty hungry.” Sylvain heads out of the room, head peeking from the doorway again to ask Dimitri: “You want something?”

The younger man turns his head minimally to glance at his friend from a distance. “Please, don’t worry about me,” he responds, and Sylvain figures that’s Dimitri-speak for _I may be hungry but I don’t want to impose_. He won’t be surprised if it turns out Dimitri last ate anything _at least_ eight hours ago. He was in the kitchen when Sylvain arrived, but considering his disastrous performance and tendency to break utensils and crush ingredients, he was probably contented with heating up water for his tea.

Sylvain opens the fridge, his eyes taking a few moments to locate what he seeks. Despite half (Sylvain, Dedue, Ashe and Mercedes) of the house’s efforts to keep it organized, the other half (Dimitri, Annette, Ingrid and Felix) constantly forgets or misplaces at least one item each day. Right now, it seems _two_ items have been misplaced, as it takes Sylvain a few extra seconds to locate a pack of butter and a block of Gautier cheese. _I wonder_ who _could’ve misplaced the latter_ , Sylvain thinks sarcastically as he rolls his eyes. At least the reduced-fat cheddar is in its rightful place on the second shelf.

His plans are far from fancy: just some simple grilled cheese he makes thinking more of Dimitri than of himself. Despite the strict training regimen he used to follow, Dimitri’s taste is reminiscent of a child with a sweet tooth and a penchant for comfort food. Sylvain himself finds most of his friend’s gastronomic preferences incredibly bland, but right now, what matters is that Dimitri gets _something_ in his stomach. If that _something_ can bring him some comfort too, all the better.

Sylvain decides to heat up water for tea and prepare his own snack first, and when he sets the frying pan on the stovetop, his eyes find Dedue’s spice rack close by. Since they started cooking together, Dedue gave Sylvain near-free reign to use some of his spices, should he ever attempt to cook without supervision. He grabs a few saucers and decides to spice up his own sandwich. If he weren’t so hungry, he would probably whip up something more tasteful (and nutritious), but some herbs and pepper sprinkled in should do the trick for now.

Once he is done, he returns to the living room, a mug of bergamot tea in one hand and a plate with two grilled cheese sandwiches in the other. Dimitri has barely moved, but his posture seems more relaxed as his back leans comfortably against the cushions, his mug half-empty by now. Sylvain places the plate on the couch between them as he pulls a coffee table closer for both of their mugs.

“Here,” he says, raising the plate and pointing at one of the sandwiches, “this one’s for you.”

Dimitri raises his eyebrows in clear surprise before he lowers his head. “I said you didn’t need to…”

“But I wanted to,” Sylvain interrupts him. “By the way, there’s still some hot water in the kettle. Want me to get you some more tea?”

“No, thank you,” the younger man pulls his mug closer to him, as if protecting it from Sylvain. “I… I will get some more tea once I am finished with this mug. Thank you, Sylvain.”

“Don’t mention it.” He takes a bite of his sandwich while Dimitri hesitantly picks up his own. The spices weren’t game-changing, but they did make the snack a little more palatable.

Dimitri’s stomach growls as he brings that bomb of cheese (Sylvain made sure Dimitri's sandwich had twice as much filling as his own) close to his mouth, and Sylvain can almost see him blush in the dimly lit room. He bites into it and exhales in satisfaction.

“You know,” Dimitri says after both eat and drink in silence for a minute or two. Sylvain’s eyes are on the TV, and _now_ he thinks he can recognize the moments that should lead up to Brigid scoring a goal. “I don’t think we give you enough credit, Sylvain.”

The redhead looks at him inquisitively, eyes widening just a little.

“You could be a little more… serious in your ways, that much is true,” Dimitri proceeds, and Sylvain thinks this is going to be an atypically roundabout lecture, “but you’re always here for us. Always caring for us, one way or another. When we get into trouble, you either help us out or jump in so we won’t suffer by ourselves.” Dimitri smiles again—soft and fragile as all of his genuine smiles—and Sylvain snorts at the last part. “I don’t know what compels you to treat yourself so differently from the way you treat us, but I’m sure I speak for the others when I thank you for everything. And when I say you could also rely on us a little more.”

His throat feels oddly tight, and he’s thankful for the darkness pervading the room. He’s certainly not invisible to Dimitri, but perhaps scarce illumination can keep his friend from noticing the expressions he’s trying so hard—yet failing—to hide. Conflicted, _emotional_ expressions. Sylvain is not one to open up. He is one to wear toxic masks, warped versions of what he should be, contaminating others but mostly poisoning himself the longer he keeps them on. It is, nevertheless, poison that _he_ chooses to breathe—to touch—to drink. If he has no control over the largest part of his life, he can, at the very least, take hold of the blades pointing at him and choose where and how they would pierce him. His own demise is one of the few things he has power over.

Having his emotions show against his will, torn from his chest by his friend’s words, could frustrate him. Enrage him, even. It could awaken a wide array of emotions that he would successfully hide behind a smile and a wink, a dismissing joke in a lighthearted tone.

If only the one other thing that moved Sylvain, aside from his own downfall, weren’t his friends.

( _How contradictory._ )

He doesn’t lie to them. Neither does he tell the complete truth. He makes promises he doesn’t intend to keep to the faceless girls he goes out with; he cannot afford to make such promises to the people he actually _sees_ in his life.

He cannot afford to lose them, so they can’t see the hideous person beneath the reckless, likeable, _poisoned_ mask he wears.

Still, Dimitri’s words reach him. He knows, here and now, that he won’t be able to open up or to rely on the others—not at a deeper level, anyway—but words go a long way, especially coming from someone as honest as Dimitri, and for a moment Sylvain feels like his friend _sees him_. Simply being _seen_ beneath the toxic mask is honestly more than he could ask for.

( _More than he deserves_.)

“Thanks for the words, Dima,” Sylvain answers quietly, now taking _his_ turn to wistfully look at his tea. His chest feels as warm as the mug in his hands. His own horde of ghosts doesn’t fail to remind him of how unworthy he is, but he closes his eyes, trying to push them away. “I may be 90% bullshit, but I want you guys to know the remaining 10% are all dedicated to you. The friendship we all share.” The words are strangled, but he keeps going, unused to such a bout of honesty. “It means the world to me.”

“It means the world to us too,” Dimitri puts a hand on Sylvain’s shoulder. He doesn’t apply any strength this time, his hold firm and reassuring instead. “Even if some of us aren’t the best at showing it.”

Felix’s face immediately comes to mind, and Sylvain laughs. Dimitri snickers as well. The air feels lighter than it has the whole night, making Sylvain feel as if he and Dimitri were still young boys looking at the stars or watching movies, unable to sleep after a day of playing with Ingrid and Felix. Kept awake not by expectations and disguises and spirits of crushed pasts and discarded futures, but because they were young and filled with energy and got easily distracted chatting into the night, careful not to wake up their sleepover companions.

A few moments of silence pass, and Sylvain decides to leave both past and future (and pasts that didn’t need to be and futures that could have been) aside as he focuses on the moment, a rare occasion in which he can let his guard down. He may not lay his heart bare—not yet, maybe not ever—but he can at least leave the mask hanging from his neck. Tomorrow will come, and he will probably put it back up, but for now—just for now—he wants to treasure the comforting, weightless atmosphere with his friend.

It takes him a few seconds to realize they missed Brigid’s goal. Sylvain is fine with that, though, and he can sense that so is Dimitri.

It was just a fleeting moment.

**Author's Note:**

> I love Dimitri's relationship with his friends, I love Sylvain's relationship with his friends, I love roommate scenarios and I love stuffing my face with cheese in the middle of the night. This was quite simple, but I felt warm writing it and hope you guys felt some of that warmth reading it, too.
> 
> 2020 is just two days away. I hope it brings everyone moments like this, in which you can have a good, peaceful time with a trusted friend. ⭐️


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